boy Cain and Vincenza had lately wandered about together so often in
this same landscape. The picture of the two handsome young people had
fitted admirably into the frame of this beautiful country. He could
still see them, as plainly as if they were actually before him, hand in
hand, now over by the lake, and again on that distant hill slope.
Perhaps it was because of his remembrance of the evening when he had
gone to look for them, and had found them at the Schwarzsee, that their
image grew upon him, so sharp and distinct, as they had walked close
together, young and slender, and each with a different sort of beauty.
He seemed to see them, and rejoiced in them as he did in the beauty of
the night, and--

Gradually the reason why he was still awake came back to him: Cain
wanted to go away! He had been happy and contented up there, and now he
must go!

Fausch stretched himself. "He shall not go, the boy, I say so!" When
this idea came into his head, he almost spoke the words aloud.

And now another thought forced itself upon him: "If he is to stay here,
you will have to sing small, Stephen Fausch, you will have to take back
half your life and say, I am sorry that it was all wrong!" He breathed
heavily, as if he were lifting an enormous weight that was almost too
much for human strength. Then he seemed once more to see Cain and
Vincenza walking side by side.

"And--and--you must leave the boy," the thought came over him again.
"And--you needn't deny it--you miss him whenever he is away from you.
Since--since Maria gave you up for the other--you have had no other joy
in your life like him--it isn't so easy to leave him for--always, you
needn't pretend, Stephen Fausch!"

The smith rose and laid his hands on the window-sill. He leaned far out
of the window for a long time. The cold night wind blew over his face.
But it seemed as if as he rose he had made his last great effort. He
passed his shapeless hand over his forehead and hair, rubbed his eye
with one finger, as if he had just waked up and now he was fully in
control of himself. By means of his strange, holiday joy in the two
young people, whom he saw wandering through the loveliness of the
night, the same strange inner joy that he felt in all beauty, he
overcame the other tyrannical force which was the foundation of his
character. It had taken a long time, years indeed, and it had been a
life and death struggle, but yet Stephen Fausch had--perhaps only for a
few